Once a Slayer
by MarksandSpence
Summary: It has been four years since Willow distributed the Slayer power to the entire succession. When evil forces start to regain a foothold, the gang discovers that every act of witchcraft has consequences. Again.


AN: Ok, so I have this idea for a story buzzing in my head. I think it has potential, but I'm not 100 convinced I have the time to flesh it all out. I decided to write a vignette to give you the gist. It's an actual scene from the story, but out of sequence--probably 1/4 of the way in. The scene involves only Giles and an OC, but the story itself will have just about everyone--well, everyone left alive after the two season finales. If I continue, I'll probably go with the out-of-sequence style, because it's different and adds a bit of mystery.

Story Title: Once a Slayer  
Chapter Title: Attrition  
Author: Mad  
Setting: BtVS, AtS future (four years post Chosen) Rating: M or R (some adult themes, language, sexual situations)  
Summary: It's been four years since Willow distributed the Slayer power to the entire succession. When evil forces start to regain a foothold, the gang discovers that every act of witchcraft has consequences. Again. I classified this as action/adventure, but I tend to tell stories through the prism of relationships, so there are some romantic themes as well.  
Disclaimer: As usual, ME owns Giles, Spike, Angel, Buffy, Faith, Xander, Connor, etc.  
Feedback: Please let me know if you'd like to read more. I'm on the fence about continuing and feedback will make all the difference.

Giles winces almost imperceptibly as he notices the young woman who had been drifting across the crowded room take a few determined steps towards him after glancing in his direction. He had chosen the table furthest from the bar, hidden almost, around the corner from the fireplace. Just a few moments to myself, he'd thought. Enough to drink a cup of tea and read through a file or two. The past few days—weeks even—had been filled with the sort of social chaos he most despised. He had been surrounded, without respite, by a bevy of voices—meeting after meeting after meeting which ultimately led them here, where there were new voices almost every day. Once they had reached a necessary level of agreement, he'd had to organize it mostly himself—sure, he was able to delegate the technicalities of travel expenses, passport verification, train schedules. But the meat of it was left to him—the hard choices—the invitation list, the schedule, the ruse. He was exhausted and they were just beginning. Just a moment, he thought. A moment to collect my thoughts.

He removed his glasses to clean them, as was his ritual for temporarily dealing with stress. When he refurnished them onto his face, he looked up and noticed with no small measure of relief that the young woman was now stopped at the bar.

"Thank the heavens." he murmured to himself, turning back to his tea and opening the flap of the first manila folder.

As he was contemplating the ethnic origins of the name printed neatly along the top of the first page, his attention was abruptly diverted by the sound of a glass placed with deliberate emphasis onto the wood of the table in front of him. Looking up, he saw the woman he had moments before been relieved to find occupied at the bar.

"Join me for a whiskey, Mr. Giles?" She said with the faintest hind of melody.

The others were much too intimidated to speak with him directly. Unless he initiated conversation, they were too timid to approach alone. They would talk to Willow or Xander or Buffy—each with closer ties to adolescence than he. Of course, they had only started arriving a few days ago. Give them time and a few would emerge, bold and uninhibited. But for now, he appreciated the distance and the occasional respite it provided him.

Detecting his reluctance, the woman adds,

"It's Connemara—Irish single malt. A bit smoky, but smooth as silk." After a breath, she adds with more serious intonation "I'd like to ask you a few questions is all."

He feels a twinge of guilt and responds sincerely,

"Of course. Sit down. You needn't have spent the money to ply me with drink—I'm here to help."

"But since it's right there in front of you..." She suggests, as she sits down across from him.

"...I don't mind having a sip. Thanks very much."

They exchange quick and mildly awkward smiles.

"Penny, is it?"

The young woman nods. He uses the time it takes to lift and bring the glass to his lips, take a sip and return it to its former position in front of him to review the details of her appearance. Her hair is black—black like Jenny's. God, how long had it been since he'd even thought her name? Funny how the pain had faded to a dull ache, sharpening only in instances like this, when there was a reminder. Centuries ago, that was. Must be. But where Jenny's skin was a deep olive, this girl has the complexion of a Celt. Blue-ish, as they say, likely to freckle and redden at the hint of sunlight (before fading back to pale, defiantly resisting the bronze). Not blue really—she has a flush in her cheeks, giving her face a touch of warmth. Her eyes are green, with a few scattered flecks of brown. But the most striking features of her face are the ones she was not born with—a scar on the left side, just beneath her temple, no attempt made to cover it. Perhaps the eyebrow ring on the right is meant to pull attention away. Two tattoos are visible—one of a shamrock, faded green, peeking whimsically above the waistline of her jeans. The other an old fashioned Celtic cross on the back of her hand, the colors still vivid.

She is not what he expected at all. Not based on what Angel had told him. At first glance, she reminded him of Faith. Faith's role in saving the world notwithstanding, the idea of having to deal with someone of a similarly rebellious (and perhaps unstable?) spirit made him cringe. _That_ is not what we need right now. _That_ would be more trouble than it's worth. She hadn't been on the original list after all. But Angel had insisted, so here we are.

"You're a Watcher." She stated with mild curiosity.

The mildness affected. She was desperate to know more about this world she now found herself in. She had learned some from Spike, but he was always fuzzy on the details. They'd thought it best to stay isolated, but now that she was here, why not jump in feet first?

Giles finds himself answering rather abruptly,

"Was. Yes."

"Didn't think it was the kind of thing that you _stopped_ being."

Giles tilts his head quickly to the side, acknowledging her point and responds,

"Perhaps not. Alas, the structure of such things has changed over recent years."

"There used to be only one Slayer." She offers, fascinated by the prospect.

She remembers when she first heard that word—_Slayer_. They used to call her that. The vampires she had suddenly and without warning found the instinct to fight, to _slay_. It made her angry. _"I'm not the bloody Slayer" "I hear you whispering. I'm not her. I kill vampires for fun. Part-time. So stop blathering on about it, for christsake." "The Slayer's too good to be going after the likes of you, you worthless piece of shite."_ She is not sure why she was always so emphatic.

"And a single Watcher assigned to her." Giles adds with a hint of melancholy.

Penny nods—this was nothing new, but to hear it from an actual Watcher...

She narrows her eyes slightly and leans forward.

"Why am I so much older than the rest?" She glances around the bar at the clumps of girls seated about before adding with an almost motherly concern "They're children, mostly."

Giles frowns, not knowing exactly how to answer.

"Well, you're not exactly...How old are you?"

"Don't let the bunches fool you (referring to her hair pulled back in two tiny pigtails toward the back of her head). I'm 32. Never thought much of it, but I feel like a bloody gran compared to the others."

He scoffs, politely.

But she is looking for an answer, not a compliment.

He wishes he had a better one for her. He tries to skirt the issue.

"Slayers are traditionally called at a very young age—mid adolescence, typically. The potentials are even younger. When the power was spread—given—to all..."

Penny interrupts, frowning slightly.

"That's not what I asked. There's not a single one older than (she looks around the room)..."

He discerns that she is not one to be skirted and therefore acquiesces.

"Twenty-five. Buffy's age."

"Why?" She asks, now with added emphasis.

Giles looks directly into her eyes. She knows already. Or suspects. He takes a breath.

"When Willow empowered the entire succession, we never though it would extend to those older than the current Slayer—to those who had been passed over. Honestly, we never even considered it. Certainly a failure on our part. We found you only because of Angel. It's possible there are others, but we've had no reports."

Penny had stopped listening at this point. Her mind stalled on the words '_passed over'_. She turned the words over and over, mentally tossing them, twirling them, waiting for them to settle. It wasn't a mistake. Not an oversight. She had been considered and rejected by whatever power was in charge. She had known. If she were honest with herself, she had known from the beginning. Spike had been the one to suggest a more passive explanation.

_Passed over_

Of course it was the right choice.

_Passed over_

She closes her eyes a moment and stills the words. Her mind reaches for comfort. Where was he? Why was it taking him so long to get here? Angel had a bloody valid passport, why didn't he?

She takes a breath and a long sip of whiskey to quell her emotions. She looks at Giles and nods.

On to the next question. Time to get to the bottom of the here and now.

"I've been losing strength over the past year."

"Interesting." Giles responds, poorly feigning surprise.

"At first, I thought I was imagining it. So I started testing myself. It's dwindling faster these past two months."

"Are you sure? Perhaps we should have you examined by..."

Once again, she doesn't let him finish.

"This isn't just a training camp for Slayers to cope with the recent chaos, is it? I'm not the only one losing power."

"What makes you say that?"

"I did a little experiment this morning—tested a few of the girls."

"Tested?", he answered, sounding concerned. He wonders if that explains the bandage on her elbow and the healed scrape on the back of her hand.

"Bit of practice is all. No need to worry. I was discrete about it."

In fact, though she did engage in a bit of a skirmish with some of the other slayers, the injuries Giles spies are the result of a tumble she took on the way to the bar afterwards.

Penny continues,

"It's happening to all of us, yeah? _That's_ why we're here."

Giles' first instinct is denial—they'd agreed to keep the true purpose of the gathering a secret, initially. At least until they knew more about what they were dealing with. Until they knew if it was happening to everyone.

Detecting his reluctance to share, she adds,

"There's no sense in secrets, Mr. Giles. I'm not a Chatty Cathy." She pauses a moment before continuing. "I've got a bit more life under my belt that most of 'em and I_ certainly _didn't come all this way to be coddled."

He stares at her for a moment, considering. There's a directness to her, that's for sure.

Focus. That's what Angel had said about her—she had focus.

He'll likely catch hell for it from the others, but he's too tired to argue or even to make up lies. Honesty is the path of least resistance, after all. And perhaps it wouldn't hurt to add another opinion to the pile.

"Yes. Others have reported a loss of strength."

"Is it just us—just the extras? What about Buffy and Faith?"

In her view of things, Buffy and Faith are the true Slayers. They were once chosen.

"Same as the rest. We had suspected it was universal, but didn't have confirmation."

"Do you know why?"

"We have a theory."

Penny looks at him, expectantly.

He pauses a moment before continuing. What was it about her that made him so willing to share? Perhaps it does have something to do with her maturity—a refreshing change from the twentysomethings he is perpetually surrounded by.

"Throughout history, whenever the power of a Slayer is passed from one to the next, a tiny fraction is lost in the transfer. This loss is negligible enough to be virtually undetectable, even over millennia. When Willow dispersed the power in order to save the world four years ago, creating an army of slayers across the globe, we had no idea what the long term consequences of this might be. We're concerned that even though little power appeared to have been lost in the initial transfer, that subsequent erosion is occurring quickly and irretrievably. We think that now, as each slayer dies, instead of being transferred, power is being lost. And for reasons we don't quite understand, this loss of power is felt instantly by all who remain."

"Entropy."

"Excuse me?"

"Sounds like basic thermodynamics to me. Loss of energy with every transfer. More slayers mean more transfers, right?"

Giles frowns in surprise and stammers,

"Yes, well, I suppose that's right."

"Don't sound so shocked, Mr. Giles. I'm sure you must know from my file that I've had some schooling."

Giles glances nervously at the stack of folders piled on the table next to him. Irish, that's right, he thinks. She's the Irish girl. Her years in America must have diluted her accent.

"I haven't had a chance to go through all the files yet. In any detail." He admits, with a touch of embarrassment.

"Oh."

She had expected him to know all about her and is a bit thrown.

"What's your last name?"

"Flynn"

Giles sifts through the pile until he finds the one marked P. Flynn. He places the file on the table and opens to the first (and only) page. He squints as he skims the document. He lets out a stifled laugh.

"Penny Pretty? Can that be right—your middle name is Pretty?"

With a mildly self conscious smile, she answers,

"Mum had a bit of whimsy in her, rest her soul. Saw it in a comic book or something. Never took a moment to consider what it would be like to grow up with initials PP."

"A stunning lack of foresight."

"Tell me about it." With a conspiratorial smirk, she whispers, "I'd prefer to keep that little bit of trivia between us, if you don't mind."

"I'll do my best."

He reads on, then looks up, his smile evaporated.

"It would seem we don't have anything about your academic background here. Just a few personal details."

She hears a hint of pity in his voice and instantly knows what personal details he is referring to.

She frowns, unable to hide her disappointment.

"That's a bit incomplete, innit? Thought you'd have a whole history on every one of us."

Giles responds, a bit defensively,

"We're not the CIA. Or Mi6, for that matter. There wasn't much left after the First's attack. You are aware of..."

"Spike told me. What he knew, anyway."

What he wanted to, more like, she thinks.

"They destroyed almost everything and nearly everyone at the Watchers Council. Consequently, our resources are still quite limited. That's one of the reasons for this gathering. To that end, why don't you tell me about this schooling of yours."

Giles pulls a pen out of his bag.

"I was a few months shy of getting my Bachelor of Medicine and Surgery at Oxford. I'd been provisionally accepted to Imperial College School of Medicine."

As he's scribbling on the page before him, he asks, "What happened?"

"I pissed it all away."

He looks up abruptly.

Penny just shrugs.

"You dropped out?"

"Got involved in some things. Intoxicatingly bad things. Lost my way." After a brief pause, "Lost my head."

She looks to the side, then down before adding with more than a hint of disgust,

"I had everything and I pissed it all away."

Giles' expression changes to one of sympathy.

"Considering the circumstances, I don't think you should be too hard on yourself."

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"Tragedy has a way of clouding our judgment. Some would say you had good reason..."

Not letting him finish, she counters,

"And some would sue McDonalds for making them fat." She shakes her head, as if to clear her mind of this self-indulgent bit of sharing.

"If you don't mind, I'd prefer we be gettin' back to the here and now."

Giles closes the file folder and puts it back on the stack.

"Yes. Quite right. Entropy."

"Why the change in pace over the last few months?" Her eyes widen before she continues. "Are more dying? Is someone killing Slayers?"

"There has been an increase in attacks targeting Slayers. But not with enough success to explain the difference. We fear that someone or something has learned how to more efficiently siphon the power away with each passing."

Contemplating this new information, Penny takes a long sip from the glass of whiskey before her. This is so much worse than what she had imagined. She thought it was just a matter of the spell wearing off—a matter of the true succession reasserting itself. This is bad. VERY bad. Her mind starts to race.

She blurts,

"You need to stop it before all the power is gone. Before there's no one left to fight them."

The panic she's feeling comes from a primal place inside her—it's the thing that links them all together. She takes a breath and closes her eyes, forcing her mind to focus. She imagines an object—a container—something to hold the chaos. After a few seconds, she opens her eyes.

Surprised by the sudden change in the texture of her voice, Giles responds, calmly.

"We're all working very hard to find a solution. We have some ideas. Some leads."

"Consolidation."

"Pardon?"

"You're going to consolidate the power. That's why we're here. Fewer slayers means fewer transitions. Can she do it? The witch, Willow? Can she reverse it?"

"We think so."

Penny glances down at the table as she works through the idea.

"Yes, that's what needs to be done." She looks back up at him. "How many?"

Giles is taken aback by how quickly she reached the conclusion that took them weeks to agree on. Weeks of discussions and arguments and white-boards. Until finally they'd agreed it was their only choice.

"I think you're getting a bit ahead of yourself."

"Not just one. There've got to be too many advantages to having more."

"We're not sure. More than one, certainly. Four, maybe five? This is something we are actively discussing."

"That's why we're here, right? So you can choose?"

Giles nods, solemnly.

"I can help. I've got a good feel for people—a good way of knowing their true hearts and how likely they'll be to listen to 'em."

"Of course I appreciate the offer, but..."

Anticipating his objection, she jumps in to say,

"I'm happy to take myself out of the running. It's surely not meant to be and I'm too old anyways."

"Again, your dedication is refreshing, but these simply aren't decisions that you are in any position to make."

She nods, duly humbled.

"I'll get to know the girls and give you my thoughts. You can ignore 'em if you like, but I'll give 'em to you just the same. In all honesty, Mr. Giles, I'd rather do what you do. I'd rather be a Watcher. You may think I'm a bit old to get started, but I'm a quick study."

She instantly regrets blurting that last part out. About being a Watcher. She'd never even given it a thought until that very moment. And suddenly there it was.

Giles leans back in his seat and gives her a quizzical look. Quite unexpected, that.

"I'll take it under advisement."

Blushing slightly in embarrassment, she slides off the seat.

"Best get me to my bed—leave you to your files."

"What we've discussed here..."

"Not a word. I know. The truth wouldn't sit well, for sure."

"Thanks for the whiskey."

"It was a pleasure talking to you Mr. Giles."

"Please, you call me Rupert."

She nods and turns to go.

"Penny." He calls after her, before she'd taken two steps away.

She turns back.

"Have you heard from Spike?"

"I expect him any minute." She pauses, thinking. "In the next day, for sure."

Despite her confident words, she's worried. He should have been there by now.

Giles nods.

"Good night, then."

Watching her leave, Giles finishes his whiskey, contemplating the days ahead. This isn't going to be easy.

TBC?


End file.
